Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
I sat in the corner for a while and pretended to work on some numbers. I hated numbers, though I was good with them. Every time I looked up, Jesse was busy. Finally—fucking finally—at one in the afternoon, she loitered by the coffee machine, flipping songs in our playlist. I moved my ass in her direction, watching her back, her neck, that tattoo that peeked back at me, now that her hair was gathered into a messy bun on top of her head.
“No one touches the playlist,” I said coolly. “That shit is cherry-picked by a Swedish indie music producer. No one wants to hear your Taylor Swift songs.”
I was an asshole. She didn’t like Taylor Swift, and I knew it.
“Jesus H, dude!” She turned around, jumping by the sudden intrusion. She’d said dude. She never said dude. Hell, I sometimes forgot Jesse was a twenty-year-old. Actually, not really. Her birthday was next week, and I was hyperaware of that. Because of the deal and everything, of course.
“Come with me.” I motioned with my head to the storage room. I wasn’t going to risk another public meltdown. Jesse was good at handing me my own ass in public. And I wanted to talk to her about something sensitive. Namely—how we couldn’t be rubbing each other’s privates anymore.
She followed me silently. I felt her steps a foot from mine. Darren was going to shish-kebab my head Game of Thrones-style if I touched her. Besides, there was a bigger plan.
A bigger end game.
The door behind us closed, and because my dick didn’t get the memo that I was not sixteen anymore, I had some serious wood to take care of. My cock was so hard the slit stared directly at my face, only Jesse couldn’t see it, because I still wore surf shorts. But it was just shorts, and I was morally opposed to any kind of underwear on men or women, so she could make out my hard-on if she simply looked.
Which she didn’t.
Thank fuck.
She hopped on top of a crate of orange juice gallons and folded her arms over her chest, dangling her legs. The light was murky and shitty, and she looked even more beautiful, now that I could clearly see her imperfections under the harsh yellow bulb. Her eyes were tired and red. Her mouth was curved in sad dissatisfaction with life. And the freckle under her left eye stained her otherwise pristine skin.
I needed to stop fixating and start fixing. I took her hand in mine. Wasn’t that supposed to be the thing you did when you wanted to be sympathetic? Hold someone’s hand? I’d never been in this position before. I mean, I’d broken plenty of bad news, but I never felt bad about breaking it, if that made sense.
Okay, now I was definitely stalling.
“Repeat after me, Snowflake: the queen is more powerful than the king.”
Her eyes were on mine, and the passion in them surprised me. It was like she knew what I was talking about. Maybe she was good at chess, too.
“The queen is more powerful than the king.”
I took her face in my hands, knowing the natural thing to do was to crash my lips against hers and see my plans and dreams rising in flames.
We can’t touch each other anymore. Not even a peck on the cheek.
Only I didn’t say that. I didn’t even think that all the way. Instead, I asked, “What’s the story with the surfing? You won’t do it?”
I thought she was going to tell me she didn’t like displaying her body after what had happened—which was fair enough—but I never expected her to silently lift her shirt and show me that.
That being her scars.
Purple and deep and taunting.
Slut
I felt my throat bobbing but couldn’t feel the swallow. Her top was bunched up around her tits. I wanted to yank her into me and hug her. I wanted to kiss that damn scar better. I wanted to lick it and bite it and show her that she was still sexy, with or without it. Actually, especially with it. What’s sexier than a goddamn survivor?
But I couldn’t touch her, not like that, so I just rubbed her cheek with my thumb and said through my locked jaw, “I’m going to kill those bastards.”
As I said that, the realization that I could and should crashed into me. I knew their names. Who they were. Getting their addresses would be embarrassingly easy. The only thing stopping me was my conscience, and that fucker was flaky to begin with, which didn’t bode well for them.
She dragged her shirt back down, her eyes searching mine, looking for disgust and disapproval. When she didn’t find any, she rubbed her forehead tiredly. “So that’s why I don’t want to go. I don’t want anyone to see this.”